


polytonality

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: violin au [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, break down is first chapter, decided to take the violin au to a place that I knew it was going to go eventually, eventual hurt/comfort, i just watched whiplash so here we go, i use vaguely loosely, not sure how the second is going to go but we all know c squared won't stand for this shit, oh my god just shut up already okay sorry, that's a goddamn understatement, vaguely abusive teacher, violin au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3596115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a four week intensive with one of the best teachers in the country. What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. crescendo

**Author's Note:**

> polytonality - playing in multiple keys at once

It’s a four week intensive in New York. That’s all Enjolras is told by the email. Oh, and that this will determine if there’s a place at Julliard for him, free of charge. There’s no name of who is running the intensive, and though Enjolras’s teacher looks worried, they know it’s legit. 

Enjolras isn’t aware that this is where everything changes. 

Master classes don’t start until the first real day, so Enjolras locks himself in a practice room that night. The hallways of the school are dark, and there’s too much wrong with the Brahms, and the random quartet music he’s handed upon arrival. From what the literal fifty other fucking other kids are saying, he’s nowhere near good enough. They’ve all had years of theory and ensemble training and five teachers and all of this shit. 

So Enjolras plays. He goes back to just tuning and runs every single scale, arpeggio, octave scale, chord packet, and whatever the fuck else he brought over and over again before even touching the quartet. 

“Work on those octaves. You’re rushing the last few.” Out of the darkness, there’s a man. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he apologizes, thinking this professor, the one who they all say is the very best, is pissed he’s in the practice rooms that late. 

“Did I say to stop playing?” Enjolras can’t place the man’s utterly blank and cold face. So Enjolras starts again, taking great care to play the octaves right. “Great. It’s like a fucking wind-up monkey.” But then he’s gone. 

Enjolras practices more. 

 

_i._

The next day, there’s exactly five people in the room designated for Enjolras’s quartet, and no coach. There’s a second violin, a cello, a viola… and two people with the first violin part. Because they all know this is a goddamn competition, they tune quietly to each other, not even bothering with pleasantries. 

On the wall, the clock beats a constant metronome into the silence. At the exact click of nine o’clock in the morning, the door slams open. It’s the professor from the night before, and he’s still wearing all black. 

“Let’s start from the top, shall we?” His voice has the same amount of calculated control as it did the night before. “Rory, you first.” Enjolras knows that’s not his name, so he doesn’t move to take the seat. 

They only make it two measures in before the man starts screaming. 

When it’s Enjolras’s turn, the teacher throws his stick at his head. But he plays the goddamn octaves right, and so the man, who’s apparently named Professor Keating, says he can stay. For now, Enjolras is the first violin in this Shostakovich quartet from hell. 

“Were you rushing or dragging?” The cello’s hands are shaking, and the other two look like they’re about to shit themselves. Keating hasn’t yelled at them yet (no, it’s Enjolras who’s a pansy ass motherfucker who can’t keep a stupid tempo), but they’re already in fear of his tight reigns. 

“I… I don’t know, sir.” And Enjolras doesn’t. His mind is a fucking mess, and there’s nothing that will stop the hell that’s coming for him. 

“Count out loud.” Cold, grey eyes do nothing to soften Keating’s words. 

“One, two, three, f—“ _slap_ “one, two, three, f—“ _slap_ “one, two, three, f---“ _slap_.

“Were you rushing or dragging?” There’s a stinging in Enjolras’s cheek that’s short-circuiting his brain and Enjolras just doesn’t know. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t know if he’s going to make it. Black. That’s it. There’s black and Enjolras can feel his heartrate speed up.

“I don’t—“

“Again.” This time, Enjolras doesn’t feel the coldness in Keating’s voice, but in his own hands, right down to the finger tips. 

“One, two, three, f—“ He’s rushing. There’s a relief that Enjolras can’t place even though there’s two more sharp impacts to his cheekbone. 

“Rushing,” Enjolras gets out, his breathing heavy as soon as the teacher is done. 

“So you’re not as fucking stupid as your parents think. I don’t know how they haven’t just gotten rid of your worthless ass already.” How does he know that? Enjolras is mind is racing and dragging at the same time because this is the best violin teacher in the entire country and Enjolras is fucking up to the point where he can’t focus. Everything’s out of whack, but there’s one constant, drumming into his head like the throbbing in his skull and the energy that’s building up:

Practice. Practice. Practice. 

Practice.

Practicepracticepracticepracticepractice.

 

_ii._

 

Enjolras moves his bed from the dormitory to a practice room. Every second that he isn’t in rehearsal with Keating (for the quartet or the small ensemble or the goddamn privates he has once a week) are spent in the room. There’s earbuds and a shitty iPod with the music and a metronome. That’s it. Somewhere in the dormitory, Enjolras’s phone is there, but he can’t check it. He can’t let himself be distracted when he should be practicing. Maybe if he works harder, longer, plays faster and with wider vibrato and a clearer sound Keating won’t hate him. He’ll stop hitting and throwing things and reminding Enjolras how little he’s worth. 

The others are whispering, whispering how much Keating hates the blond violinist from Chicago, and how there’s no way Enjolras will live through the next three weeks. Their whispers are not the music that Enjolras can’t stop from bouncing off the walls of his empty skull. Courfeyrac’s laugh is music, and so is Bella’s dancing, but Enjolras is not allowing himself to give into the humanity. There is no room for that here. There’s only music and the empty bodies that orchestrate the noises. 

So Enjolras practices. His fingertips are black and blue and his wrist is swollen despite how often Enjolras plunges it into ice, but Enjolras practices. He tunes and memorizes and knows this fucking quartet and solo and all of the orchestra set so well that he doesn’t need the goddamn music anymore. He practices when Keating makes him cry from all of the obscenities thrown at him and the resultant abuse from his tears, and he practices when Keating doesn’t even have the time of day to correct Enjolras. 

But it pays off. Keating doesn’t hit him at all during the second private. Maybe this will work. 

 

_iii._

 

“Here’s the other two pieces we’ll be performing. I expect you to know them by tonight.” Everyone nods. It’s 5:30, and they’ve been playing all day. Enjolras’s fingers have lost all of their callouses and it fucking hurts but he’s made it through another day. He needs this scholarship, and he needs to prove that he can do this. Keating is a fucking god, and Enjolras _will not_ disappoint him (more than he already is). 

“Violin One, please stay after.” Shaking, Enjolras doesn’t even bother to put his violin in its case. He merely avoids those grey eyes that hate him so much and awaits what will definitely come. 

“I found another kid in the practice rooms last night. I want to try you both on this part; he’s had the charts since this morning.” 

Everything has gone black again. There’s a sinking in Enjolras’s stomach that fights against the bile going up in his throat because this is such a goddamn failure. 

When the other kid walks in, it’s Enjolras’s roommate. His roommate who can hardly fucking keep it together during the big orchestra, the only part of Enjolras’s schedule that’s free from Keating. (And he hates that it is. God, what the fuck is wrong with him?) 

 

_iv._

 

He gives him the part. The kid fucking sucks and this is unfair but Enjolras isn’t good enough, he isn’t enough, he isn’t enough. This is a line full of octaves and left-handed pizzicato and crazy runs and the kid plays it like shit. But Keating gives it to him.

So Enjolras practices until his fingers have finally stopped bruising and started bleeding. It runs down his wrist and when Enjolras shoves his hand into a bucket of ice water all he can see is the red leaking from his hand like his will to live through this. 

 

_v._

 

“That’s not my fucking tempo!” 

The world is rocking and churning around the black, the black that won’t leave whenever Enjolras is in a room with Keating. There’s something clawing, screaming inside of Enjolras’s stomach, threatening to break Enjolras open from the inside out, but he just bites his lip. This time, the thing he can only describe as fire isn’t directed at him. It’s the kid. 

“I’m sorry. I can just—“ 

“Can you play the tempo or not, you fucking leprechaun?” The tempo is 245 and it’s hell. But Enjolras has been practicing this shit and he knows it. He’ll still fuck it up but less than that goddamn kid. “You know what? The rest of you can go get coffee or stick your thumbs up your asses or do whatever it is that you do when you’re not in here. I need to figure out which one of these three bastards can actually play the violin.” 

“Enjolras, you’re up.” 

The clock says 9:45 at night. 

“Nope, still wrong.”

10:22.

“Will one of you stop acting like a fucking idiot and just play the part!” 

12:38. There’s black and red swirling together now, but Enjolras is going to earn this part. He’ll get this part if it kills him.

2:55. Enjolras is sweating and bleeding and he’s racing through the two straight pages of runs. There is no sheet music because Enjolras’s eyes only see black and his ears are ringing with the pain in his bleeding fingers but he doesn’t stop. His face contorts and the black closes against the rebellion in his stomach but Enjolras plays. He plays and plays and fucking plays and Keating doesn’t stop him this time.

“You’ve got the part. Alternates, go clean the fucking blood off of my floor.”

2:57. “All right. Let’s start from the top.” 

 

_vi._

 

“Again.” Enjolras can’t breathe. It’s been five hours into a private that was only supposed to be one and he can’t do this. There’s only black and he’s terrified and can barely hold his violin much less play it. His fingers are black and blue and green and red and his veins are threatening to pop out of his swollen skin. 

“Why aren’t you fucking playing?” There’s a chair that Enjolras just manages to duck before he starts the Brahms again. But then there’s a guttural scream and a fist meets Enjolras’s stomach. “Did I tell you to fucking stop?” 

There’s only a week left and the slaps to his face have stopped. Can’t have him on that goddamn stage embarrassing him and looking like he just got run over by a truck. 

“Do you want to be every other kid playing at a recital with people pretending to give a flying fuck? Or do you want to be goddamn Itzack Perlman?” 

Black. That’s all there is. Swirling, screaming, deafening, silent black. There’s not a lot of Enjolras anymore.

“You’re a fucking waste of space if you can’t get this goddamn cadenza right! All of those stupid admissions people fucking fawned over you but all I see is some stupid-ass kid who can’t play a goddamn note right! Now play it again.” There’s a chair throw at Enjolras’s head to emphasize this point. 

Enjolras plays (fucks up, because he can’t do anything goddamn right and he’ll never amount to anything). 

“Jesus Christ it looks like we’ve got a fucking toddler again. Now play, you little bitch, and if you stop because it hurts I’ll make sure you never play here again.” 

Enjolras doesn’t stop practicing until he starts getting blood on his violin again. 

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen when this is over.

 

_vii._

 

“This is a group of the best high school musicians in the country. We’ll be playing some of the classics for you, but we’re going to begin with a violin concerto. Please welcome Connor Enjolras.” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

This is a fucking low blow.

There’s not much left in Enjolras, but what does turns black against the stage. The words from before are echoing in his head, how this one concert will make or break him, and Keating is fucking him over. His family and Courfeyrac’s and Combeferre’s and his violin teacher are in the audience, and Enjolras is being shit on. 

But he makes his way to the front of the stage, as the appropriate music is taken out by everyone else who fucking had the parts, and Enjolras sees the golden, hard glint in the teacher’s eye. The world turns entirely to black as the overwhelming fact that he’s nothing and Keating knows it crashes down upon him. 

The music fills his ears and Enjolras wishes he isn’t so fucking addicted to this that he’d have just walked away. But he plays. 

That’s a loose definition of what he does. Enjolras fumbles through the opening and he can’t believe he remembers this much but he knows it’s not enough based on the fucking smirk on Keating’s face. 

It’s over. It’s over. It’s over. (Why doesn’t he just stop playing?) 

Enjolras feels a fire, a fire blacker than anything he’s ever felt and knows that this is what he has been reduced to as he rips Brahms from his violin. Every emotion Enjolras doesn’t have is flying out of his violin, and Keating’s smile twists as it builds and builds until the final cadenza. The room goes silent, and Keating knows that he’s about to hear the best goddamn rendition he’s pulled from that kid yet. 

It doesn’t come. Enjolras is playing, but it’s something Keating has never heard before and that kid is improvising with the skill of a born and bred jazz musician mixed with a fucking violin virtuoso. (Enjolras has no idea what he’s doing but there’s nothing left because it’s all on this stage.) When he starts a fucking insane octave run, he feels his first finger tear open again. But no one hears the first drop of red meet the black of the stage, the black of the fingerboard, or the black of Enjolras. 

There’s notes and music pounding inside his soul and for the first time the black is escaping from his stomach; it’s pouring from his fingertips faster than the blood and Enjolras can’t think past the pain but he’s not thinking and still it’s just falling out of him. There are runs and trills and high notes and vibrato but Enjolras can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Keating asks, but there’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes that Enjolras can’t help but think he stole from him. Enjolras just keeps going, letting the madness that’s been pressed against his skull from the first time Keating’s hand met Enjolras’s face out in full force. The ringing is gone and instead Keating his pushing his hands down, guiding what Enjolras has become detached from. He’s not playing; there’s a beast that Keating has molded from the blackened ashes that is both Enjolras and not. And the beast obeys, lets the craziness slowly wither into nothing as Keating guides it into submission. 

There’s a quiet trill on the g string, but then Keating relinquishes control and the madness builds and builds and builds until there’s the arpeggio that the man beat into his skull that leads straight into the octaves and the highest notes who’s vibrato hurts so much that Enjolras feels his wrist detach from his body. 

But he plays. He plays and practices and plays and vibrates and hurts, and in that one moment, Enjolras has reached an ending that he hasn’t seen coming. There’s the cacophony of the orchestra crashing back in and the chaos of the black retreating back into the depths of his stomach, but when that last note rings through the hall, Enjolras realizes what has happened.

He is not a human. He is a bundle of tendons and notes and blood and rhythm, but he is nothing more. 

The lights plunge everyone into blackness.

(Enjolras is the blackness.)


	2. calando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath.

The beast has just curled into a ball, begun licking its wounds, when Keating exits and Courfeyrac enters an indeterminate amount of time later. They’ve missed the last of the words still pounding into Enjolras’s empty skull ( _you can’t even fuck up properly, you useless piece of shit_ ) but there’s a fresh mark on his cheek and his left arm can’t move without throwing a bitch fit like the failure it is.

“E,” is all Courfeyrac says, but Enjolras can’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t deserve to; he needs to just lock himself back in that practice room and work. Because it’s not enough. It’s not enough for Keating so it’s not enough for Enjolras. 

Gently, hands cup Enjolras’s face, forcing him to look at Courfeyrac’s concerned eyes. The hands are soft and not callused or bleeding like Enjolras’s disgusting ones, but Enjolras grabs the unmarred wrists like a lifeline. He needs to hold onto the pulse that he’s not even sure his own wrists have, to hold onto something that’s human because he isn’t anymore. Now there’s blood on Courfeyrac, too, but the pulse is keeping Enjolras calm because it’s a tempo he can breathe to without rushing or dragging or… _fuck_. (the cheek stings even more now that he remembers his first lesson)

“Okay, okay,” Courfeyrac says softly, noticing how Enjolras’s face twists in pain when he moves. “We’re going to take you home, okay? Well, to a hotel, but then home tomorrow.” Because Courfeyrac’s much better than the beast deserves, he waits until the blond curls bob up and down. Only then does Enjolras let himself be hauled to his feet. Enjolras sways a little as the beast regains its footing, but Courfeyrac just grabs Enjolras’s violin case for him and holds onto his friend with his other hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras rasps out, as the door of the greenroom opens and the burden that Enjolras has become is suddenly shared across so many more people. His family, Courfeyrac’s, Combeferre’s… Enjolras doesn’t see his violin teacher, but he knows he was in that audience he should just apologize to for putting them through that. 

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.” For once, Enjolras’s father sounds gentle, even though Bella hides behind Mrs. Courfeyrac. (Bella is scared of Enjolras, not their father, and the thought makes the blackness grip his throat tighter and the hatred boil hotter in his stomach.) 

“We’ll grab your stuff from the dorms,” someone offers, but Enjolras doesn’t find the energy to raise his head, much less acknowledge the voice. 

“Practice room four, too.” No one questions it, and Enjolras allows the guiding touch on his back to lead him to wherever it is that he’s going. Courfeyrac has his violin, so Enjolras is nothing. If he just accepts it maybe it’ll be easier to deal with and he won’t feel so damn empty. 

( _Whatever was left in you kid, it’s on that stage. You’re nothing now, and will always be._ )

After that, it’s a blur. Enjolras doesn’t snap back into his body until he’s in an unfamiliar hotel room and someone tries to pry Enjolras’s left arm from the tight grip his right has on it (no, he’s definitely not cradling it to his chest. That’d be pathetic). The pain grounds him, and suddenly Enjolras sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Alexander. 

“Are you there, Connor?” Alex asks, sitting down next to his brother. Apparently, he’d been the one to try to unfurl Enjolras. The beast is curled up too tightly to be dismantled that easily, and the black has too tight of a grip. But they can’t see that. 

“What are you doing?” Enjolras’s voice is hoarse, but he doesn’t get it. Bella and Hugo aren’t here, and yet Alex is… Alex is trying to take care of Enjolras. Like Enjolras is the little brother, or even a goddamn human. 

“Your arm, E,” Combeferre answers, as Enjolras manages to straighten it. This gets a smile from the other three, but they don’t realize how much it hurts. 

“Let go. Come on, you’re making it worse,” Alex coaxes, and Enjolras realizes that he’s clutching a bloody bandage. Somehow, he manages to convince his fingers to let go, and Alex grabs the piece of fabric, quickly pressing a new one on and holding it in place himself. 

“Where are they?” Enjolras doesn’t even know who the “they” is. Fuck. Why isn’t he back at school; everyone’s gone. He should be practicing. 

“Courfeyrac’s dad and my dad should be here any minute with the stuff, and our moms and the munchkins had to run to the store to buy a few things. Your parents and your violin teacher are talking some things out with the school right now.” Combeferre’s voice is calm, but Enjolras tenses (and whimpers in pain) at the end.

“Why are they talking to the school?” The black creeps up Enjolras’s esophagus in small tendrils. If anything happens to Keating because Enjolras is too damn weak, he’ll never forgive himself. He’s a harsh teacher, but a good one.

“Well, you got one of the scholarships.” Courfeyrac smiles a little, but it falters and falls almost instantly. “But they’re furious, and rightfully so, about Professor Keating and what he’s done to you.”

“He hasn’t done anything wrong.” In a second, Enjolras has jerked out of his brother’s grip and stood up, ignoring the dizziness. “He’s made me better.”

“That’s a load of crap, Connor—“ Alexander starts, standing up to match his older (and taller) brother. 

“No, it’s not. You guys were there; you saw what he’s managed to pull out of my useless body. I’ll never play a cadenza like that again.” Enjolras’s voice raises in volume, but he can’t hear it over the roar of approval in his stomach. 

“We also saw the blood all over the stage,” Courfeyrac counters. “And how much it hurt.” 

“Pain makes greatness,” Enjolras shrugs it off. That’s been his mantra, through the weeks, beating a constant tempo in his head. He knows what’s true, and what’s true is that the cadenza isn’t good enough for Keating but it’s the best he’s ever been. Which is fucking pathetic, but at least it’s a step in the right direction. 

“That’s bull, Connor. You’ve got to see it,” Alex pleads. “You can’t even bend your arm.” 

“I can,” Enjolras challenges, because that’s what he does. “I can even play. I should be playing.” It’s like a switch clicks on in Enjolras’s brain, and suddenly he’s searching for his violin. “Where is it? Courfeyrac, what did you do with my violin?” There are arms on his shoulders, and Combeferre is blocking his view. 

“It’s not here. It’s in the other room.” Combeferre’s voice is calm, but his hands are too fucking tight and Enjolras’s shoulder screams at the grip. 

“Then let me go get it!” Everything blurs together, but Enjolras can feel the music coursing through his blood, and he’s drawn to the feeling of it. He needs to feel that music, that humanity, one more fucking time. It’s all that’s grounding Enjolras to this planet, to this life. 

“No. Come on, Enjolras.” Combeferre manhandles Enjolras back to the bed, even though Enjolras is fighting. 

“I have to.” They don’t understand. This is all Enjolras is. 

“Why.” Courfeyrac doesn’t phrase it as a question, but rather a challenge. And the beast rears its ugly head to look at Enjolras’s friend’s worried face. 

“It’s all I am.” Enjolras can hear the voice crack. “I’m nothing without it and I can’t… I can’t…” There’s the pain he’s been holding back in that stutter, and all it takes is Courfeyrac wrapping his arms around Enjolras to break him down completely. 

“Goddammit, E, you’re wrong.” Enjolras hears Courfeyrac’s voice through the ringing in his ears, though it’s hard when he’s crying so hard he can’t breathe. He needs violin. He needs _his_ violin.

Only after Enjolras finally manages to pull it together does Courfeyrac let go, only to immediately be replaced by Combeferre, and then Alexander. 

 

_vii._

“Food, and then sleep.” Courfeyrac’s mom leaves no room for argument as she guides the teenager to the couch. It’s an empty house; everyone else is at the matinee for Bella’s first performance on a little bit of pointe in the Nutcracker, but this is something that can’t be put off. 

In five minutes, Mrs. Courfeyrac wanders back to the sofa. Enjolras is mostly asleep already; dark black circles that haven’t disappeared yet drag his eyes down to his cheekbones and his left arm rests against his stomach. After she explains the situation, they agree to a full cast, even though it’s not physically necessary. 

“Hey,” she says gently, nudging the teenager to bring him back to the land of the awake. “I know you want to sleep, but you’ve got to take the medicine first, and eat a little with it.” They’ve given Enjolras some nice, strong painkillers, but Mrs. Courfeyrac knows Enjolras will start refusing them in a matter of hours. And then he’ll want to practice (and then she’ll want to kill that teacher all over again). 

“Don’t want to,” he mumbles, eyes managing a glare at the blue plaster that’s trapping his wrist. There’s little wraps on his fingers, so he’s stuck trying to clumsily text Combeferre with his right hand instead. 

“Well, it’s happening. And it’s only four weeks… it could have been a lot worse.” 

“It’s four weeks without playing. I can’t do that.” There’s a crack in Enjolras’s voice again, and he has yet to even touch the food. 

“You need a break. Your hand needs a break,” she responds. 

“There’s not enough time for a break. I have to get going on my senior recital, and two other auditions, and I’ve got to keep this going.” Enjolras won’t look at her, his voice as hollow as it’s been for days, but Mrs. Courfeyrac just puts an icepack wrapped with a towel on his wrist. “I iced it, you know. I iced my wrist every damn day. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine, but we’re not going to talk about this right now. You need rest.” Mrs. Courfeyrac can see exactly how much Keating has fucked with Enjolras’s head, but they’ve got to get the physical under control before they can start fixing what’s going on with Enjolras. 

“You’ll wake me up before tonight’s Nutcracker performance, right?” Of course, there is always the part of Enjolras that will love his siblings fiercely, the part that even Keating couldn’t stamp out in the name of music or some bullshit. Almost no one knows that Enjolras loves as fiercely as he plays his violin, and even though everyone is ranting and raving about that goddamn cadenza, Mrs. Courfeyrac hates it. It’s strong and fierce, yes, but it is just as terrible as it is great. There is none of the love that she can associate with Enjolras in that playing; there is just overwhelming agony thrust through wood and horse hair and forced into sound. 

“If you eat the food and take your meds.” Really, Mrs. Courfeyrac should have opened with that. In an instant, Enjolras is compliant and in a matter of fifteen minutes he’s sleeping on the couch with some Copland playing through his earbuds. 

Mrs. Courfeyrac knows what they’re in for. But at least she knows how to fix this. 

(They have four weeks to get their shit together.)

 

vi. 

“Enjolras, you’re going to have to talk to me eventually.” It’s a Thursday, which means that instead of taking Bella to ballet like he’s supposed to, he’s stuck sitting in a shrink’s office to talk about absolutely nothing. 

To prove his point, Enjolras just looks at the bookcases again. He has Brahms stuck in his head, but he can’t get it out because they won’t let him goddamn play. They don’t understand the music is pulsing through his veins like the blackness and not being able to do anything about it is killing him slowly. 

“Your cast comes off in two days.” Enjolras knows from experience that he’s only two ill-fated conversation attempts away from an hour of silence. So, he grits his teeth and thinks about how amazing Bella’s getting at dance, about how he definitely needs to talk to Hugo about getting Alex to do more “kid things”, and how he just wants to play his violin. 

Enjolras can’t even look at the therapist. He knows that she’s telling Mrs. Courfeyrac and everyone that he hasn’t been talking, but he doesn’t care. They’re micromanaging him like he’s a child, or worse. Like he’s broken. 

He’s not broken. He’s stronger. 

__v._ _

There are rules, rules that Enjolras knows how to ignore. They think Enjolras is only practicing for an hour, and that he isn’t doing Brahms and that he’s icing his wrists afterwards. Fuck that. They’re all fucking hypocrites; Courfeyrac and Combeferre work themselves into the ground over school and AP classes and all that shit… Enjolras just chooses to pour his effort into something else. 

All it takes is a little bribery on the part of the dumbass school music teacher and Enjolras has a practice room to himself for two whole hours after school. And considering his parents are back to their normal life (aka back to not caring) and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are starting to relax because Enjolras has played nicely for their daily visits and for his violin teacher so Enjolras goes back to what he knows. 

Enjolras’s teacher is pissing him off. He doesn’t get upset, doesn’t push, doesn’t do anything than calmly correct Enjolras when everything sounds like a pile of shit; he won’t even let Enjolras touch the Brahms like he wants. Or the Paganini. Or anything. It’s like trying to ease someone into freezing cold water; you just have to push them in. Enjolras knows how to jump in by himself, and he just needs to make sure that his teacher holds his head under. 

Everything sounds so terrible and the blackness screams at him, but Enjolras just calmly packs up his violin after his time is up and heads home. He knows what he’s going to do tonight, but he needs to take care of the munchkins first. 

A voice that sounds like Keating is howling about how Enjolras is putting everything else before violin, but Enjolras yells at it to shut up. 

See? Enjolras doesn’t need their rules. 

_iv._

“Enjolras?” Alexander’s voice is hesitant, and Enjolras startles so badly that he almost drops the dish he’s holding. “Can I talk to you?” 

It’s approximately eleven o’clock at night, but Enjolras just smiles. “Of course. What’s going on?” 

“I think you should talk to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.” Simultaneously, Enjolras’s worry disappears and strengthens. He’s so glad that something isn’t terribly wrong with his brother, but he has no idea what Alex is going to try to tell him. 

“About what? I’m fine. I’m going to bed after I finish up the dishes.” Enjolras’s hands shake, and he stuffs them into the warm dishwater so that his brother can’t see that his wrist is swollen again. 

“Are you going to Julliard next year? Even though Keating’s still there?” Alex blurts out, his eyes full of worry. “Because I know you’re not fine after what happened and everyone is really worried.” 

“I don’t know where I’m going next year. But you don’t need to worry about me. That’s my job.” Enjolras’s voice is quiet, and in the dim light of the kitchen he dries his hands to sit at the table next to his brother. 

“You don’t get it, Connor. I know that Bella and Hugo think everything’s back to normal, but it’s not. They were scared of you when they first saw you in New York, and I was, too. I’m still scared.” For the kid who hates talking about feelings, Enjolras knows his brother is bearing his soul. Enjolras is going to fix this. 

“Why were you scared?” No, Enjolras voice isn’t shaking. 

“It… it wasn’t _you_. We heard you solo, and at the beginning we all knew that this no one had told you, that someone set you up. But then it got further and further in and you just… it didn’t sound like you, and then you started bleeding and just kept going and we knew. He messed with your head, really badly, and now it’s like you’re not even going to try to fix it.” Alex wipes the rebellious tear off of his face, while Enjolras just looks at his hands. 

"I don’t know how to explain this to you. All I know is that Keating pushed me farther than I thought I could go, and he’s brilliant. He’s going to make me into something great, even if it hurts or if he has to push me to do it. I swear that I’m fine, and that you guys don’t need to worry. I know what I’m doing with violin.” 

"See? You’re not even trying. I don’t know what to do.” Then Alexander is gone, shaking as he does. “You’re going to be mad, but I can’t let you do this. It’s just… please go to sleep.” 

Enjolras realizes he forgets what it’s like to have someone who loves you so much they’ll confront you about things. Even if they’re wrong. (Even if you’re wrong). 

_iii._

The next day, everything falls apart. Enjolras only has just managed to get the munchkins off to school when Combeferre and Courfeyrac enter the house. 

“Left hand. Now.” There’s something cold in Combeferre’s voice, and Enjolras doesn’t want to test him. “I swear to God Enjolras I am not dicking around.” When Enjolras complies, he lets out a hiss as Combeferre presses down on the tendons a little. 

“Have you even been icing it?” No. Enjolras has let his cheeks get hollow and his eyes tired and has stopped icing his wrist because he is not goddamn weak. 

“What the fuck?” Courfeyrac’s voice is barely there, and his hands grip at his curls. “Enjolras, you _know_ that this is bad.” 

“It’s not nearly like it was in New York. It’s fine,” Enjolras mumbles, even as Combeferre magically procures an Ace bandage and starts wrapping his wrist methodically. When Enjolras tries to pull his hand away, Combeferre’s grip only tightens. 

“Jesus, E. You can’t believe that. _Alexander_ texted us that he thought you were hiding something from us, and he was fucking crying when we called him.” Enjolras looks down. He hates this, hates that he causes his friends to lose their shit because he always pulls shit like this, hates that he knows he can’t stop. The music won’t let him. 

“Did you know that they’re keeping Keating? At Julliard?” Enjolras says, mostly to himself. The thought makes him laugh a little. “He’s going to hate me even more.” 

“You’re not…” Combeferre’s voice is suddenly completely different. “Enjolras, if he’s there, you can’t go to Julliard.” 

“I have a full scholarship there. When my parents inevitably kick my ass to the curb, it’s the only place I can still afford to go. And it’s _Julliard_.” They know it’s been Enjolras’s dream for years now, and yet they still want to take it from him. 

“That’s not—“ 

“He’s still got more to teach me. If he could do that in four weeks… what could he do in four years,” Enjolras muses, smiling to himself. 

“Break your entire arm?” Courfeyrac spits. They spend the entire time to school trying to get Enjolras to talk about his feelings and Keating (but mostly Keating), but Enjolras just flexes his left wrist, annoyed at how tight Combeferre has wrapped it. He definitely can’t do good vibrato with it on, and it’s too complicated for Enjolras to repeat himself. 

When Combeferre and Courfeyrac all but frog march him home after school, Enjolras knows he’s fucked. Or, rather, his senior recital is fucked. 

_ii._

Enjolras doesn’t know why he starts talking. But he does, talks about college and why he needs to go to goddamn Julliard, and the therapist just sits there in listens. Enjolras thinks he talks about Keating and why everyone’s wrong about him, too, but he’s honestly not sure. He knows that the blackness comes up, and that time last week when he had fucking snapped and yelled at Combeferre to just hit him when he was pissed about the practicing thing. 

When he’s done, when his guts are on the pristine carpet floor of this office, he manages to look the therapist in the eye. Quietly, calmly, he leans forward, clasping his hands together. His hands are gnarled and old, but still look better than Enjolras’s. 

“I love music, and I watched the video of you playing the Brahms for your audition, and then at Julliard. Did you know that Brahms was in love with Clara Schumann?” The voice is calm, and Enjolras’s brain is suddenly flooded with music history. 

“Yeah. Everything he wrote had his love for her. The end of the Brahms… it’s like there’s a baby sleeping, like he was imagining them as a family…” Enjolras can’t help himself. 

“Yes. The first recording, I could hear that. Every time you played, every recording I’ve listened to, I could hear that love. You captured it perfectly. But it wasn’t there at Julliard.” 

“But the notes, and the tricks, and I definitely had emotion—“ Enjolras immediately argues, because he knows he goddamn played it the best at Julliard. 

“You had sheer agony. It was incredible, but terrible. I know I prefer listening to the pure sound of love than someone ripping their heart out. That love, Connor, that love is what makes your playing extraordinary. And Keating stripped it from you.” 

“No.” Enjolras’s head is spinning. “That’s not true.” 

“Let’s watch them, then.” 

That’s when things start to get better. 

_i._

It’s a month before Enjolras’s senior recital when he performs the Brahms for the second-to-last time. For some unknown reason, the CSO wanted a young soloist for their set, and they want him. Of course, the therapist is basically pissing himself about this, because that’s what Jimmy is like. (Enjolras doesn’t know how he got on first name basis with him, but it’s helping and Enjolras doesn’t even fight it anymore.) 

Ironically, it’s the same day he needs to choose a college. Right now, he’s thinking Eastman, but there’s that little bit at the back of his head that wants Julliard. He wants it so badly because Courfeyrac and Combeferre are going to Barnard and they could be in New York together and it would be amazing but they don’t want it if Keating is there. Enjolras knows he can’t do it if Keating is there. 

But, best of all, it’s the day of Bella’s final ballet performance for the season, and she has a starring role. So Enjolras puts on his calm face, even though he’s freaking out because he’s soloing with the CSO again, and sets to work on getting her hair and make-up as good as he can. His braiding skills have gotten a lot more intricate, but he still needs Combeferre’s help with make-up. 

They sit there, some Marquez playing in the background, while Hugo and Alexander watch. 

“You did ice your wrist today, right?” Enjolras is still having problems with his tendons swelling up, but it’s gotten infinitely better since he slowly pulled himself out of the rut that was Keating. “Brahms is a long piece and I don’t want—“ 

“Relax, Alex,” Enjolras says, smiling lightly as he works on applying blush to Bella’s face. “I haven’t even done anything today. I’ll warm up when I get there.” 

“When are you getting there?” Courfeyrac asks, currently playing a game of Yahtzee with Hugo. “Your parents are meeting us at Bella’s recital, which is only a few blocks from the concert hall.” 

“I have to duck out as soon as Bella’s recital is over, because they want one last dress rehearsal. My tux is hanging in my room, and I double-checked my violin case for anything I might need. 

“Sounds like you’ve got this routine down,” Combeferre comments as he concentrates on Bella’s eyeliner. “Just another Saturday.” 

“Shut up,” Enjolras says as he turns red. “I know that means I’m not going to be able to meet you after it, but I’ll have Courfeyrac give you a hug for me.” His voice is serious, but Bella just smiles at her brother. 

“It’s okay. I’ll see you after your concert,” she says genuinely, squeezing his hand. This is the Connor she likes. 

“You’re going to be stunning, Bella,” Combeferre announces as he finishes, giving her a hand up. 

“They grow up so fast.” Courfeyrac comments, looking at his former dancing partner. “I can’t wait to see you on pointe, Bella. You might end up dancing on stage one day while your brother’s stuck in the pit.” 

After that, it’s a blur until he’s sitting in his seat on the end, next to Combeferre, about five minutes before Bella takes her first principal role. There was too much hustle, and he had to calm his own thoughts, even when the blackness screams at him to practice and to be better, to ignore this. But he’s not going to ignore Bella. Even if he has to send in that deposit to college today, to the college he wants to go to but doesn’t know if he wants to go there the most. 

“Holy shit.” Combeferre’s eyes snap up from his phone. There are tears in his eyes. “They fired Keating, after some of his students came forward. He’s not going to be there next year.” 

“Oh my god.” That’s all Enjolras can say. “Oh my god.” 

“You know what this means?” Courfeyrac says, standing up to hug his friend as tightly as he physically can. 

“I’m going to Julliard.” The words are whispered, and Enjolras feels his heart soar and soar like Brahms’s probably did every time he saw Clara Schumann. 

“Our next performance features Connor Enjolras. You might remember him from his amazing rendition of Ziguenerweisen last year, but he is here today to perform the Brahms Violin Concerto, a piece which won him a full scholarship to Julliard starting this fall. Please welcome him to the stage.” 

Enjolras walks on stage, and he sees his entire family in the audience. He sees Bella, who’s smiling and waving at him, and he sees the pride on his friends’ faces, their parents’ faces, _his_ parents’ faces. When he plays, he doesn’t focus on the pain in his wrist, doesn’t even remember what it felt like to play this piece under Keating’s thumb. He thinks of the great perhaps that college music will be, and what he’s had to do to get here again. 

But, mostly, especially during that goddamn cadenza, he thinks about how much Brahms loved Clara Schumann, and how much he loves the faces he can pick out in an entire auditorium filled with people. He’s playing for Bella, whose dancing left him in tears, for Hugo, whose smarter than Enjolras will ever be, for Alexander, who’s growing up so fast and so well, for Courfeyrac, who’s literal sunshine and is the only thing keeping Enjolras grounded, and for Combeferre, who cares so much that he doesn’t care if Enjolras hates him for helping him. 

He doesn’t see anyone else’s tears, or hear the thundering applause that comes when he’s finally done. The conductor is wiping away the salt water from his own face, but all Enjolras can see is his father crying. 

This is what he plays violin for. This is the love, the beauty, the— 

Enjolras’s eyes land on Keating. 

_sforzando_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long--I rewrote it like five times. I think I'm going to continue this AU, but when they're in college and stuff. Maybe more Amis will make appearances. Let me know what you think, and thank you for all of the positive feedback on the first chapter. :) And, for those who were wondering, this piece is based on Whiplash, a movie that never ceases to fascinate me.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think. i have one more chapter left of this to write, I think.


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